What will they not do! exclaims another gaunt lawman
in the times of the thin wrists, dust clouds and locusts.
We saw Bonnie Parker with a cigar hanging out her mouth
and gawked at her and Clyde, imagining every lurid detail:
what jaunting splendor they felt gunning down a bank man,
and who undressed whom, as what raced through two
East Texas minds, when shot through with lead or lust.
Truly another generation without shame, one remarks, for
what had it taken to make the shrew run off with the devil,
or to make the youth rage around the basin of a continent,
Heavens we will never know. But ain’t that the way to die?
Ain’t they some folk heroes now? In that echo chamber
they made an Adonis and Aphrodite of their ragged selves,
and a vociferous attestation of the power of that haggard
wagoner bound for circles around the abundant plains of
hunger; how better might we live as killers, too! How better
might we raise this next generation without shame; hands
on belt buckles, wrists brimming with torque and plague.